The sky cracked open with the first blush of dawn, painting the eastern edge of Ikanbi in strokes of gold and rust. A hush held the camp—a silence not of slumber, but of anticipation.
And then, the sound of feet striking earth.
Ben ran at the front of the formation, lungs burning, sweat glistening on his brow. Behind him, Kael, Jaron, and Mala kept tight formation, each leading their squad of one-ring warriors. Dust rose in their wake, a silent storm of discipline and momentum.
The tribe watched in awe as the militia ran in a wide circle around Ikanbi, marking its invisible borders with every step. The older folk paused in their work, and some of the children tried to imitate the motion. But there was no playfulness in the warriors' steps—only strain, rhythm, and purpose.
Ben's breath grew heavier with each lap. His stride began to falter.
A low laugh echoed from the bamboo edge.
Twa Milhoms appeared beside him without warning, walking at the same pace Ben struggled to run. "Your spine looks like it's trying to escape your body," he said casually.
Ben grunted. "Try doing this… after building a tribe."
The god smirked. "You'll lead them better when you can outrun them."
Then, with a flicker of presence, Twa Milhoms was gone.
Ben clenched his jaw and pushed harder.
After the fifth lap, Kael signaled the order, and the warriors dropped in unison into pushups. Hands slammed into dirt. Arms pumped. Then came jumping jacks, the sharp snaps of movement echoing in the clearing.
Finally, they transitioned into the morning movement—the sweeping, grounding dance that Twa Milhoms had once drilled into Ben with relentless repetition. Now, every warrior followed that form. Some were clumsy. Some precise. But all were committed.
As they rose from the final motion, a single sharp clack rang out.
Sema stood near the center of camp, holding a hollowed bamboo stalk in one hand and a polished stick in the other. She struck again—clack clack—and the air seemed to shift.
"That's the signal," Ben called, chest heaving. "We eat."
The warriors gathered into three rows and marched toward the central fire circle. Long wooden planks had been shaped into low communal tables. Steam curled from clay bowls filled with steaming roots, charred meat, and leafy herbs.
Sema stood behind the food with a quiet pride. The lessons from Twa Milhoms were simple but revolutionary: three meals a day, eaten as one. Protein for strength. Roots for endurance. Greens for recovery.
Ben took his seat first, and the others followed. No ceremony. Just unity.
As they ate, the rest of the village watched. Some curious. Some skeptical. But none interrupted.
From the bamboo's edge, Twa Milhoms observed in silence. He said nothing, but his presence hung over the meal like the scent of burning cedar.
Later that morning, as the warriors cleaned up and resumed their duties, Ben walked among them, offering nods and brief encouragement. He didn't need to bark orders. Not anymore. Purpose moved with them now.
The rest of the tribe slowly adjusted. The structure was foreign, but not unwelcome. Tasks began to flow more smoothly. Arguments happened less. A rhythm was taking root—steady, strong, and unmistakable.
Back at the edge of the training ground, Ben crouched beside the bamboo bell Sema had fashioned. He ran his hand over its surface, feeling the smooth groove where the wood had been worn by use.
"This," he said quietly, "is how it starts."
Behind him, Jaron and Kael were already calling for the next training session. Warriors lined up again, and the ground began to tremble beneath their feet.
A new drumbeat had begun in Ikanbi.
And it came not from war—but from order.
The sound of feet pounding against earth had become a rhythm of the tribe itself. Morning after morning, the militia ran the wide circle around Ikanbi—feet kicking up dew and dust, lungs burning in the cool jungle air. It began as chaos. Stumbling, grumbling, exhaustion. Many couldn't even make it halfway without collapsing, others vomited before the first lap was complete.
Ben, always at the front as Twa Milhoms commanded, felt every ache as a brand. His muscles rebelled. His breaths came sharp and fast, but he refused to stop. Behind him followed the three commanders—Kael, Jaron, and Mala—each wearing the weight of leadership differently.
Kael barked encouragement between heaves, his military instincts awakened by purpose.
Jaron ran silently, but his presence steadied others.
Mala didn't speak at all—her expression carved from stone, eyes sweeping for the weakest among them and pushing them forward without mercy.
By the fourth day, something began to change. Not the difficulty—that remained. But the response.
Where once there were groans, there was breathing in sync. Where there were complaints, there were clenched jaws and set shoulders. Where some had dragged their feet, now they rose before the bamboo bell rang.
Their bodies thickened, even in those who had once been soft. Shoulders squared. Spines straightened. They moved faster, with better posture. They fought through the soreness, learning how to breathe through the pain. Push-ups, once miserable and broken, became solid—backs flat, elbows sharp. The strange movement gifted by Twa Milhoms that once confused them became graceful. Some even practiced it at night, hoping for hidden strength.
A few tried to cheat early on—ducking the route, skipping movements. But the tribe policed itself. Not with violence, but with expectation. You don't let your commander down. You don't shame the circle. Those who faltered were picked up—shoved, yelled at, supported. The camaraderie that emerged was unspoken, built not on comfort, but shared fire.
Sema's meals helped. At first, bland and repetitive. Then, richer—roots, fish, wild greens, and, after Twa Milhoms' teaching, balance. She served them immediately after training, and they ate together under the rising sun. Every plate was earned.
Ben watched it all, feeling the shift like a current changing direction.
Druel began organizing rock-carrying drills to build strength. Boji taught the men how to move through water silently, using it as resistance. Even the unmarked who weren't militia began imitating pieces of the routines, hungry to share in something greater.
The tribal spirit was no longer just surviving—it was becoming.